antique reminiscences, and gracious humanity. “The peace of heaven, The fellowship of all good souls go with him!” Uncle Timothy rose to retire. “One moment, sir,” said the Lauréat; “we have not yet had Mr. Flumgarten's song.”? “My singing days, Cousin Bosky, are over,” replied the ill-matched hubby of the “Hollyhock;” “but, if it please the company, I will tell them a tale.” CHAPTER XI. |Mr. Merripall, having gathered that the tale was of a ghostly character, would not suffer the candles to be snuffed, but requested his mutes to sprinkle over them a pinch or two of salt, that they might burn appropriately blue. He would have given his gold repeater for a death-watch; and when a coffin bounced out to him from the fire (howbeit it might be carrying coals to Newcastle!) he hailed it as a pleasant omen. Messrs. Hatband and Stiflegig, catching the jocular infection, brightened up amazingly. THREE CHURCHES IN A ROW I. If you journey westward--ho, Three churches all of a row, Ever since the days of the Friars, Have lifted to Heaven their ancient spires. The bells of the third are heard to toll-- For Pauper, Dives? Pastor, Cives? For a rich or a poor man's soul? Winding round the sandy mound Coaches and four, feathers and pall, Startle the simple villagers all! Sable mutes, death's recruits! Marshall the hearse to the holy ground. Eight stout men the coffin bear-- What a creak is here! what a groan is there! As the marching corps toil through the church door-- For the rich dead must be buried in lead; Their pamper'd forms are too good for the worms! They cheat in dust, as they cheated before. Mumbles the parson, and mumbles the clerk, Prayer, response, All for the nonce! Who shall shrive the soul of a shark? Slides the coffin deep in the ground; Earth knocks the lid with a hollow sound! It lies in state, and the silver'd plate Glares in the ghastly sepulchre round! Death has his dole! At last, at last the body's nail'd fast! But who has the soul? See a mourner slowly retire, With a conscience ill at ease For opening graves and burial fees, He hath yet to pay his debt,-- Tho' Heaven delays, can Heaven forget? Forget? As soon as the sun at noon. That gilds yon spire, Shall cease to roll--or that mourner's soul Itself expire!